Alexithymia
by dancedude09
Summary: There's more to living than being alive. Series of OneShots of all characters to Anberlin's song, "Alexithymia."
1. George

**A/N: **This is going to be a collection of One Shots from various characters at various times in their life, all inspired by lyrics from Anberlin's song, "Alexithymia."

**Alexithymia: the inability to express feelings with words.**

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_Don't believe anything you say  
Anymore, in the morn, in the morning_

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Very slowly he opened his eyes. They met the painfully familiar surroundings of his childhood bedroom. Quidditch players zoomed in and out of the poster on the opposing wall. A stack of books in varying states of use lay on the desk, accompanied by discarded ink bottles and forgotten copies of the _Daily Prophet_. Brown boxes labeled with assorted, cautioning words were scattered haphazardly around the room. A lopsided tack board displayed aged lunar charts and numerous black-and-white photographs. Cloaks and other pieces of clothing were hanging sloppily out of the wardrobe. An empty bed next to his, still unmade, sat idle and cold. 

Mornings were the worst.

He heard yelling echoing through the house. He tried not to make even the slightest noise. He belonged here for a while. He deserved here. Here with nothing but his thoughts and the steady hum of his heater.

He tried to forget, but he couldn't stop remembering. He wanted to scream, yell, rip, tear, cause a scene. Do something, anything. Anything that would make his heart stop the constant pulse of pain. Wouldn't it have been easier if he had gone, too? Shouldn't they have added this to the list of things they did together?

They had fought that as small children–being constantly associated with each other– as, he expected, most children would. He'd shone his first sign of magic when he'd become uncontrollably angry at being called... _His_ name and he blew up the dinner tray in front of him. He told _him_ that he'd give anything to not be born a twin.

Now, he'd give anything to have him back.

His mother had sobbed that day. She, apparently, didn't posses an Inner Eye, either. If she did, she could have seen how close they would become, how inseparable.

They were surely separated now.

His ceiling creaked, and bits of dust fell from it, landing on a box marked with "It's For Your Own Good That This Box Was Sealed With Magic, Ginny." He noted that the contents of the box were probably volatile by now (if they weren't originally) and that he should probably get rid of it, but who was he to throw it out? It was only half his; how fair was it to trash something not completely his?

For that reason, his room had stayed the same way they had left it before the War. Occasionally, when he felt like he could no longer live in the mess he had made himself, he picked up, always stopping when he found something not put there after the Battle.

He heard footsteps stop outside his door. He snapped his eyes closed, so when the door opened seconds later, only a sigh was heard before it was shut again. He wondered how long he could get away with staying in bed. Usually, his mother came in around noon, claiming she needed his help doing one thing or another. He figured she wasted all morning coming up with ideas to get him out of their room–his room.

More yelling floated through the thin walls. It seemed to be yet another bad day.

They are all bad days now.

He pulled his bed sheets higher to cover his shoulders and thought of bad days before the War and bad days presently. He never appreciated the gift of a day when nothing went right, when he had his other half to help take the edge off with, when they spent hours in detentions dreaming of their future and complaining about the now. Looking back, those were the days he missed most, not the purely happy ones, because he realized that his relationship with _him_ had been so deeply ingrained and comfortable that any moment could seem a bit brighter.

He let his eyes flutter open again. The desk still was acting as a rubbish collector, the closet still had fabric coming out of every opening, the walls still held aged artifacts from what seemed like another life, and the bed next to his looked even lonelier from this angle. He choked back a whimper at the sight of a photograph of his uncles, Gideon and Fabian, bouncing himself and _him_ on their knees. They couldn't have been more than a few months old because shortly after, he knew, his uncles were killed fighting together by a gang of Death Eaters.

Together like the way they should have gone, too.

It was curious to him that he and his brother never made any sort of plan for this. Of course, all their time in hiding was spent avoiding the topic of tragedy as there was so much of it happening around them they felt no reason to discuss it outside of mentioning the news. But in all the time before the War, in the time between all of those pranks and punishments they did together, he couldn't remember even one moment where they had thought about their deaths. Jokingly and on numerous occassions, they had both stated their mother was going to beat them to death with her broomstick, or even that, one day, Dad's muggle experiments would go haywire and blow up the Burrow, killing them all.

Reading between the lines of all of those brief memories, he began to piece together the absolute realization that they had never, ever thought that one would go on without the other.

He reached for his wand and pointed it at himself. His mouth turned up at the corners. If his mother were to walk in, he knew she would think he was trying to off himself, and though he had thought about doing that more than a few times over the past few months, he felt it was a duty to do what his brother couldn't do and live on.

"Tergeo," he spoke, cleaning his face of all remnants of the box of eclairs that he stole from Ron and ate in the wee hours of the morning. He nodded to the picture of his brother on the tack board. "This one's for you, Freddie."

He opened his door and found his redheaded sister posed to knock on his door. She blushed furiously and scampered up the stairs, probably on orders to wake the entire house. He passed a clock hanging opposite Percy's bedroom door. Just minutes past noon.

Mornings were the worst, but days he could handle.


	2. Sirius

**A/N: **This chapter depicts Sirius's childhood. Please review if you are reading.

**Alexithymia: the inability to express feelings with words.**

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Bricks to this old house are breaking

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The atmosphere was typical: that Black superiority that he so loathed, and he was becoming increasingly frustrated as the minutes on the grandfather clock ticked. He was hungry and unbearably unsatiated. His listening, which nearly all Black rules stated should be fined tuned, was wavering as his beautiful, doll-like cousin drowned the family with stories of Hogwarts. Sirius wished he was spending the Christmas holidays with James and his parents who were up there in age but had more spirit than anyone in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. At least they would have been cheerful.

His family was so tense and strained.

His little brother locked eyes with him from across the table. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as if he was being challenged. Regulus did always liked to be entertained, especially when it was at Sirius's expense. He winked at the eleven year old. "Narcissa, _please_ tell us again how horrid the sleeping arrangements are."

He finished his shielded jeer with a smirk, batted eyelids, and a sip of whatever his father had poured in his cup (probably poison, he thought, though he found himself so bored he didn't care.) His cousin whipped around, taking her eyes off of his mother and unleashing them on him. Her eyes were filled with anger, but he found them more amusing that fearful. Narcissa had never held the steely glare as well as her oldest sister, Bellatrix.

Which filled him with another thought: it was a dreadful shame old Bella wasn't coming around anymore. She was always worth a few good laughs. He wondered how often he would see her now that she was married to Mr. "Pure should be the only kind of blood there is, Mrs. Black." He called him that so often that he sometimes lost track of his real surname. Though, he did admit, Lestrange is a bloody hilarious name no matter how evil the bloke seems to be.

It was also too bad that his favorite of all Blacks, (not exactly a hard feat to accomplish) Cousin Andromeda, was no longer frequenting the Loving and Most Welcoming House of Black anymore. As in, she had been banished off of the family tree for running away with the Muggle-born, Ted Tonks. He would miss her greatly; she gave him hope. He still had four years before he became of-age, and he had wanted her to stick around until he could escape, too, but he knew she was living happily without the Blacks to tear her down.

"Oh, I suppose the _Gryffindor_ dorms are just impeccable?" Narcissa sneered. The entire table of Blacks glared at him with such dislike that he felt as if they had just heard the news of his being a Gryffindor for the first time. His teeth clenched. He had heard this mock before, many times, actually, and he found himself wanting to take back his first comment. Sirius knew exactly how this entire conversation would proceed now that the blonde had started the Gryffindor smear campaign. Really, he should've kept his mouth shut until after they had reached the second course. His stomach was growling.

A quick glance at the grandfather clock told him he indeed started too soon. He looked at Reg, who was grinning sadistically at him. For an eleven year old, the boy could be pretty conniving. He'd be proud if he didn't know that his brother would probably be led down the same road as Mr. and Mrs. Purebloods-Are-Supreme.

"As a matter of fact, Cissy," he added that term of endearment which he hadn't actually meant since he was about five, "they are quite spectacular. Thanks for asking." He tried to quickly focus on his salad. Even through his uncle's rage of disapproval, he thought longingly about the curtains that he hated, about Peter's incessant snoring, about the loose floorboard that he was guaranteed to step on, about the drafty window that couldn't even be cursed shut, and about James's habit of sleeping until well-past noon. It was true that he had complained loads of times about the conditions of the dorm he shared with the other boys, but the dorm was fabulous compared to the Evil and Most Pretentious House of Black.

"..I just don't understand it, Walburga. How did we raise such traitorous Blacks?" He heard Uncle Cygnus say to his mother. He was obviously talking about Andromeda and him. He laughed at the irony: a traitorous Black. Wasn't he taught from birth to never trust anyone, even family? Wasn't it preached daily that the fundamentals of the Black heritage were pedigree and audacity? A traitorous Black was sort of redundant, he thought.

He swallowed his rage, thinking about his uncle, Alphard, who had dealt with these same people without losing his composure on countless occasions. Sirius, though not in agreement with them, understood Uncle Cygnus and his mother and father much better than they believed he did. They were taught, as he had been, the notion that Muggles were inferior, and they saw their own children associating with the inferior.

He saw his own parents associating with lunatics.

Frankly, he wasn't even sure he saw a future for the Black family. He figured in a few decades everyone would be dead or have a different last name. Maybe Regulus would have a few kids, that is, if he got out of the family without becoming as cynical and bitter as he was. Narcissa was betrothed to that complete git, Malfoy, who he was sure didn't give a damn about her, but they would definitely have some evil, blonde brats to absorb their pureblood mania, and Bella would probably get herself killed or chucked in Azkaban.

He would die laughing at their pathetic lives.

His father threw his salad dish, causing the Black crescent on it to shatter against the wall and Sirius's fine listening skills to be used again. "I will not have this in my family or in my home!"

He sighed, wishing he could have at least tasted the roast beef. His father continued to bellow, surely at him. Regulus nearly grinned, loving that Sirius, the popular Gryffindor, was hated by his Slytherin parents. Narcissa seemed a bit scared, and for a brief second, he felt sorry for the way she was forced into the person she is now, that she didn't have the strength to fight her parent's wishes.

His Aunt Druella, whose personality was permanently foul, shrieked, too, so that the entire table was filled with yelling about being faithful to the family name. His mother was going so bonkers that he couldn't distinguish what she was going on about.

The grandfather clock chimed. It was eight o'clock, he thought he might be able to make it to the Potter Manor before James ate all of the rice pudding.

He trudged over to the fireplace, his mother howling about how he should never come back, grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, and spun off for the Potter Christmas he'd been craving for.

Leaving the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was like breathing again, and he was glad he didn't have to clean up the broken pieces of the china or the broken pieces of his family.


	3. James

**A/N:** Here is James. The song referenced in the chapter is Smile by Nat King Cole. I don't own it or anything else written in this entire story. Please Review.

**Alexithymia - the inability to express feelings with words.**_

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_To the sounds of a record player  
With it's jumping needle and the lights that grow dim over time_

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James Potter woke with a start, shaking and sweating. His untamable hair was flattened against his forehead, and his callused hands were trembling in their fierce grip of his bed sheets. His heart pounding rapidly inside his chest combined with the way his breaths were coming, short and shallow, made him wonder if he actually could be dying.

Or was it worse?

Fear streamed through his body; he could feel it pulsating in his veins. He scrambled out of his bed which was frighteningly devoid of her red hair and soft, creamy skin. Blindly, he felt hastily around on his night stand for his glasses. He found his wand instead. He tore from the bedroom, lighting the tip of the wand and praying to Merlin that they weren't, but knowing that they could be.

He reached his son's bedroom. The light poured over every inch of the room, showcasing the abandoned toy broomstick, the scattered square blocks, the open window, the undisturbed Quidditch mobile.. the empty crib.

He tried to yell for her, for him, for anyone but found his voice incapable. He thundered down the stairs, willing himself to be faster.

Was he too late?

The kitchen was lit with a hazy glow. He hurried inside and felt the instantaneous rush of relief at the blurry sight of his wife rocking a brunette baby boy. He remembered to breathe.

"James?" Her voice was hoarse in the way he knew it only was that late at night. He thought it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. "Are you alright?"

He nodded and collapsed into the nearest chair. His head fell into his hands, and he wondered how long his life would be plagued with dreadful moments like that.

Before she died, his mother told him that being a parent is more than teaching manners and administering punishments. She said it was to be perpetually worried about another person. He figured the worry was heightened when a parent knows their family is at risk for being murdered.

He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He refused to let fear overtake his daily life. He glanced up at Lily and thoughts of her reassure his heart. She always had a rather calming effect on him.

She struggled with balancing the baby and trying to clean up the mess of bottles and milk spread over the counters. He could have waved his wand to tidy the jumble, but he decided Harry was much more entertaining. She folded their son and his blanket neatly into James's arms and then summoned his glasses. He smiled thankfully and pressed his lips to her cheek.

Harry blinked at him sleepily with his glimmering emerald eyes. James loved his son's eyes. They were the same color as his beloved Lily's, but they were filled with the wonderment and innocence that only children can possess. He adored watching little Harry's eyes alight with different baby emotions when they had their deep father-son talks about everything from what-to-do-when-you-find-a-girl-as-lovely-as-Lily-Evans to treacle-tart-is-bloody-amazing. The moment he saw those brilliant green eyes he knew his son would accomplish great things in his life. Sure, every father felt their boy was the best, but James knew, he was absolutely certain, that Harry James Potter would be legendary.

"James," Lily whispered, exhaustion evident in her gentle voice "Let's put him in bed."

An easy grin spread over his features as he followed his exquisite wife up the stairs. Lily had never been much of a night owl, even late patrols at Hogwarts left her in a state of fatigue, and he understood waking at odd hours of the night to tend to Harry was more than a bit draining.

With a few lazy flicks of her wand, she lit the candles in the room and set the old record player to play Harry's favorite bedtime tune- a Muggle song that Lily's parents danced to at their wedding so many years previous. The song was rather extraordinary, full of passion and bursting with beauty.

It reminded James of Lily.

She took the bundle of Harry and blankets from his arms and placed it in the crib, kissing him good night. The light from the street outside hit her face so perfectly that his breathing once again came up short. It had nearly been ten years since he first saw Lily Evans, her dark red hair matching the Hogwarts engine, her bright green eyes glimmering with amazement at the world she had stepped into, but now, her hair was carelessly tossed over her shoulder, and her eyes shone with nothing but the same spent feeling that only someone involved directly in the War could hold.

Merlin, he loved this woman.

She turned to him, grasping and releasing his hand on her way out the door. He held on to her. The idea sprang to him like all of his really good ones did, and he heard his voice come out, faint and loving, before he really thought about it. "Dance with me?"

A feeble smile graced her lips, "James.." She shook her head and moved to leave, but he drew her into him, laughing into her hair.

She relaxed into his arms, not bothering to fighting, not really wanting to, anyway. She giggled at his flourishing motions. James was as agile as anyone she had ever met, years of Quidditch and escaping punishments do that, but he had always been dead dreadful at dancing. It was something he reserved for her alone, knowing how she loved it.

A soft, late-August breeze blew through the open window. The humidity in the air was ever-palpable due to the storms that had plagued those months. James and Lily wondered if those storms would ever stop, along with the horror that was associated with them.

He slowed their motions to a lazy, close sway, thinking of how shortly ago it was that they were painting this room in anticipation of the arrival of their child, how shortly ago it was that they were still children themselves. At only twenty-one, James felt like he had lived more than a lifetime, mostly attributed to the way his family and friends filled every moment with substance and spirit but also to the recent stress caused by the gravity of the War.

"I was scared earlier, Lils." He muttered into her neck, marking the same spot with a kiss. "I thought... I never want to lose you and Harry."

She ran a hand threw his unkempt hair and looked into his hazel eyes. She felt her heart constrict and a tear fall down her cheek, but she promised, "You won't."

And there, with the aged record player crooning softly in the background, with their one-year-old son sleeping peacefully in his crib, and with the moonlight framing her face, James Potter forgot all about the fear pressing on his heart, all about the his continuous nightmares, and he fell in love for the umpteenth time with Lily Evans and the gorgeous green of her eyes.

They had at least one more day.


	4. Andromeda

**A/N:** Andromeda's life; I don't really like this one much but ehh, w/e. I don't own anything. To my reviewer: I thank you very much; you gave me the will to write this.

**Alexithymia: the inability to express feelings with words**

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_All smiles and no one remembers our names_

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A constant, hazy rain developed as March gave way to April, and London sat in a debilitating fog for a straight week. Contrary to Andromeda's wishes, the weather did not improve as the days of the month flew by, and she was forced onto the blurry streets of Diagon Alley with her young grandson in tow.

As usual, Teddy was enchanted by the glittering store fronts and the exciting animation of the witches and wizards gathered there. She had a great deal of difficulty trying to stop him from running every which way; sometimes, she admitted, his boundless energy exhausted her, but today, she felt more uneasy than she normally did, like the weather reflected her stirring mood.

She struggled to keep her eyes on Teddy while also searching for a gift for his impending birthday. It simply amazed her that four years had nearly passed. He was getting to be such a charming boy: Dora would have absolutely adored him. Andromeda felt her heart constrict with the dreadfully depressing notion that her only daughter would never see her only son grow.

Not that she didn't warn her that something awful could happen because she had. She had reminded her every terrible day of that war, and still, Dora couldn't live in a world where her son could be in danger. Andromeda understood the feeling, so maybe she couldn't fault her.

But after years of waking in a cold sweat, she found that she most definitely could fault her.

She shoved those thoughts out of her mind and tried keep a pleasant look on her face. Diagon Alley was certainly not the place to be losing her composure, especially on a bustling Saturday. She reminded herself to stop by the Apothecary after their shopping trip. Teddy had acquired a severe runny nose from the dreadful weather, and she had depleted her stores of Pepper Up Potion.

She felt a familiar tug on her hand and switched her vision to the height of the young boy currently struggling to be free from her grasp. His hair turned a deep black as he focused all of his energies into his little arm muscles. Her aged lips pulled into a smile as she realized where Teddy wanted so desperately to escape to: Quality Quidditch Supplies.

She should have known.

Teddy's godfather, Harry Potter, had hardly wasted any time getting Teddy acquainted with the most popular Wizarding sport. In fact, on their first meeting–right after the Battle–Harry had been so unsure of what to say to an infant that he spouted off for nearly an hour about the game. She thought Quidditch to be frivolous and bordering on barbaric, but it made Teddy overwhelmingly happy.

She tried to keep the smile out of her voice as she told him that they couldn't visit that shop and steered him into Flourish and Blott's. He frowned, his eyes turning a muddy brown, but followed dutifully, knowing that the bookshop would be bustling and remembering the book with the moving safari animals he'd received last time they were there.

Andromeda was quite happy to be greeted by the warmth of the bookshop, even with the hoards of weekend shoppers poured into the bookstore. She tried to edge past a group of gossiping elderly women. They hit a dead-end in book aisle with only a sign displaying a stodgy old Frenchman that read: _Curtis Delamater, Author of Bestseller, __Wizards Without Pants: the Naked Truth Behind Famous Behinds__, Writes New Novel Coming To Stores This May. Reserve Your Copy Today! _She rolled her eyes, causing the Frenchman to shout silenced obscenities, obviously perturbed that someone found the idea of his writing a new book obnoxious. Teddy giggled and pointed wildly at a cover that showed his mirror image.

He thought his hair was a ball of laughs.

Apparently, laughter caused the sign to swing open, revealing the back of the store where a very old witch in a set of tattered, patchwork robes sat reading a book to children gathered on their own stools, which looked like sturdy stacks of classic Muggle children's books. She signaled to Teddy that it would be alright for him to join: She watched her grandson happily pick the stool near a handful of burly, rough boys.

She glowed with pride as Teddy chatted amicably with them, even getting the frail girl next to him to participate in the conversation. Teddy had no fear for anyone. At the mere age of three ("I'm almost four, Gran!"), Teddy showed himself to be courageous, caring, and extremely friendly.

They might as well induct him into Gryffindor now.

Nearly an hour later, Andromeda carried her sleeping grandson down the street, slipping into the Weasley boys' shop for his birthday present. Ron Weasley greeted her with a smile and rubbed Teddy's bright hair affectionately saying, "'S too bad Harry's stuck in the office today: He would have loved to be hanging out with this guy."

"Yes, it's awful how much the Ministry's been working him and you, as well!" She shook her head disapprovingly. She found in her older years that she had become one of those bitter witches who automatically hated the Ministry of Magic no matter how efficiently they were running. "You're just boys!"

Ron laughed heartily, "They like having Harry around because he makes them look good. And me? Well, I'm here helping George without any Howlers from Kingsley, so it doesn't seem as though they're missing me too much."

"Oh, nonsense," she dismissed this with a hand wave. "All of it is just nonsense–making young things like yourselves work endlessly in search of Death Eaters, who are probably in a rainforest somewhere hiding, without pausing to think that you might have lives!"

She shifted Teddy who was weighing heavy on her left side and stooped to pick up a children's cauldron kit that Ron assured her would be safe for Teddy. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling again struck with an uneasy feeling. She forced a smile and turned to Ron, "And oh! Molly and I were speaking about you lot, and she told me that the Longbottom boy is leaving to teach at Hogwarts."

"Oh, yes. He's taking over Herbology. He was always fantastic at it." Ron laughed, scratching at his red head and watching George handle another customer.

"Good for him." She smiled, slightly cheered by the notion. She wanted to add that he and Harry should think of leaving, too, but she knew it would be to no avail. Besides, there was always time at Teddy's party for that. "Well, I've got to get going. I'm sure Teddy will be awake for Wednesday's party, you are coming and bringing Hermione, yes?"

After Ron had promised that they were, of course, coming, Andromeda left the shop with Teddy and his present, once again wishing it wasn't so blustery out. Passing by the Apothecary, she decided it was worth the second trip to not have to carry Teddy around where there were dangerous vats of everything possible laying about the store. The Pepper Up Potion could wait.

They reached the archway back to the Leaky Cauldron, and she nearly sighed aloud in relief. The idea of getting back to the crackling fire and hot dinner awaiting them sounded simply blissful. It did seem, however, that they would have to wait to use the fireplace to Floo home due to the numerous witches and wizards crowded in the pub. She could barely budge an inch into the tavern, and when she tried, she knocked Teddy's weight into a blonde man in fine black robes. Teddy stirred and rubbed his eyes, and the man turned to her, wearing a sneer that made her heart stop.

Beside him, a blonde woman stood with her mouth drawn in a straight line. She felt hers open, as if to apologize, but it shut itself before words would form.

"Andromeda," the man's voice was lazy, uncaring, "of all the people.."

Teddy squirmed and wrestled out of Andromeda's arms easily. "Hi, I'm Teddy! It's my birfday soon!"

"How lovely." The woman directed to Teddy. "Andromeda, this is certainly a surprise."

The wind seemed to be knocked out of her as if someone had punched her in the stomach. The woman-- who when they were much younger would tease her for being a worrier, would nag her to play endless matches of Gobstones, would ultimately hate her for loving a Muggle-born--how could she so swiftly address her when she herself felt incapable of any interaction.

The drawling of her name from the woman's lips was like being taken back in time. A time that she had hated more than anything. Around them, the Leaky Cauldron bustled onward, and the two women, little boy, and uncaring man did not attract any sort of flutter as they once would have.

The woman's icy blue eyes bore into her chocolate brown ones with such intensity that she had to fight the urge to pull into her famous glare. Then, she realized with jolt, the woman, though never able to glare like she and her oldest sister could, had learned the same Black stare that their cousins and parents had.

She cleared her throat, "Narcissa."

"Lucius, why don't you go ahead? Draco is waiting for us. I'll be along in a moment." The blonde swept her hair off of her shoulder and let the impatient man move past her. "It's odd that I would run into you, Andromeda.."

Her eyes rolled without her thinking of it and she spat, "Wizarding Britain is quite small, Narcissa. This meeting was bound to happen after thirty years."

"I meant since I have been thinking about you at lot lately." The blonde continued, completely unfazed. Andromeda could almost see the young beauty running about their childhood home, knowing that the world was at her fingertips; she could almost feel the vivacious attitude of the young Narcissa which had faded terribly overtime. She could almost let her heart want a sister again. But then she remembered the last words her sister had spoken to her before she left the Black household for good.

Blacks never come clean, Andromeda.

Someone behind her tapped her on the shoulder. "Miss? Are you going?" The Floo line had moved in the time between two sisters sharing a grasping moment. She nodded and grabbed a handful of Floo Powder. She gathered Teddy into her arms again.

She turned back to a dejected Narcissa. "Malfoys never come clean, Narcissa."

In a flurry of motions, the Leaky Cauldron spun out of view and the Tonks household greeted her. Years later, she would be proven wrong about her statement to her sister just as Narcissa was wrong about the statement to her.


End file.
